


A Quiet Kind of Intimacy

by alpha_exodus



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Photography, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack doesn't really care about having a roommate on this roadie - that is, until he heads to his room and finds out his roommate is Kent Parson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Kind of Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laineymaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laineymaid/gifts).



> for the lovely Madelaine's birthday!!! I hope you've had a great one dear :D
> 
> feat. underage pimms (age isn't specified but I picture it being earlyish in their Q time so? they could be close to 18 haha) and cute selfies

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Jack tries to say it gently, but he thinks his frustration comes through in the set of his mouth nonetheless.

Parse—Kent Parson, Jack thinks. The other guys call him Parse, and Jack’s not really sure he calls him anything—but anyway, Parse gives him a guilty look as they set their bags down on their respective beds. It’s the first roadie they’ve gone on that involves staying the night in a hotel. Most of the guys had elected to choose their roommates, but Jack hadn’t cared—until now, because his roommate is Parse and Parse had been shooting him not-very-discreet glances all throughout dinner. “You’re kinda hard to talk to, you know,” Parse says, sitting on the side of his bed.

“What—why?” Jack’s brow furrows. The whole thing is making him a little nervous, because he’s noticed Parse, out on the ice—it’s impossible _not_ to notice someone of his speed. And noticing had lead to watching, although he’d forced himself to keep the watching to a minimum, and the watching had lead to thinking _thoughts_ —and God, those thoughts hadn’t exactly been appropriate, had they?

“You’re always so quiet,” Parse shrugs lamely. “And none of the other guys talk to you.”

“They could if they wanted to.”

“Does that mean I can too?”

“Well—aren’t we?” Jack stares at him, puzzled.

Parse chuckles. “I guess we are. Kind of, anyway. I dunno. Tell me about yourself.” He kicks his shoes off, swinging his legs up onto the bed so that he’s leaning on his side against the pillows.

And that’s—huh. Jack’s never really been asked that question before, at least not in that way—everyone wants to know what it was like growing up with Bad Bob Zimmermann as his father or how Jack’s going to follow in his legacy, over and over until he feels sick from it. But Parse is asking like he actually wants to know the answer, and for once that answer doesn’t have to involve Jack’s father at all.

Jack finally lowers himself onto his own bed, though he doesn’t make any more effort to get comfortable. He doesn’t want to lure himself into a false sense of security, because feeling safe means becoming more vulnerable and becoming vulnerable means—well. He doesn’t quite know what it means, but it’s making him nervous, prickling at his fingertips and down his spine.

It’s not a bad kind of nervousness though, at least not as bad as other kinds he’s experienced. It feels new.

“I play a lot of hockey,” he says eventually, and Parse starts laughing. “What? I do,” Jack frowns at him.

“Sorry, sorry—I mean, I know you play hockey. That’s why we’re here, yeah?” Parse’s smirking now, but not in a mean way. Jack kind of thinks he likes it.

“I—“ Jack swallows. “I like, um. Taking pictures,” he says, voice sticking because he knows that isn’t the manliest of hobbies and he’s not sure if Parse is the kind of person who’s going to give him shit about it.

But Parse doesn’t. Instead he props himself up on his elbow, raising his eyebrows. “That’s interesting. Like, portraits and shit? Or the outdoors?”

“A little of both. Not like—posed portraits, mostly candid stuff,” Jack shrugs. “It’s fun.”

“I bet,” Parse grins at him. “I can never hold cameras steady, man—hey, do you have one?”

“A camera?” Jack asks, and Parse nods. “I do, but I don’t have it with me. It’s at home.”

“Aww, that’s a shame. I was gonna ask if I could see.” Parse looks genuinely disappointed, as if he hadn’t been asking just to be polite.

Maybe that’s why Jack shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls his phone out, even though he never shows people his photos, not even his parents. Slowly, he says, “I took some on my phone. Um. If you wanna look. You don’t have to.”

“Awesome,” Parse’s half-smile brightens.

Then before Jack can protest, Parse sits up and moves to Jack’s bed, plopping down close beside him, too close—Parse’s knee is brushing lightly against Jack’s, and Jack can’t keep the flush off of his face so he forcibly looks away, _God._ _Not appropriate not appropriate not appropriate—_

“You all right? I don’t have to look, if you don’t want,” Parse says, and Jack realizes his hand is frozen midair, halfway through unlocking his phone.

He swallows and takes a long breath, looking back at Parse. “It’s okay,” he says, retyping his passcode, even though it’s not okay because Parse is so close that Jack can clearly see the color of his eyes—flecks of green ringed by a color that’s almost grey. Ah, fuck. He’s not going to be able to stop thinking about that later, when he’s trying to fall asleep with Parse in the other bed, is he?

Heart beating so loudly he’s sure Parse can hear it, he nonetheless taps at his phone until he finds his gallery, then scrolls through the pictures there, picking the first one that catches his eye. “I took this outside the rink,” he moves the phone to show Parse. It’s a picture of a grove of trees at sunset, and he’d taken about a dozen to get this particular shot—it’s gratifying, to finally get the angle and the lighting he wants, especially with a phone-quality camera.

But then—oh God, Parse leans even closer so that he can see, and now his shoulder is brushing Jack’s and Jack’s this close to flushing again—fuck, fuck, okay. It’s all right. The guys sit up next to each other like this all the time, it’s not an issue. Jack can deal with it.

“That’s fuckin’ gorgeous,” Parse murmurs, looking back up at Jack.

 _Oh_. Jack feels a shiver of pleasure roll through his chest. “You mean it?”

“Hell, yeah,” Parse shrugs. “I would’ve sworn that was like some expensive-ass print or something. The way the lighting is patterned here—that’s really great.”

“O-oh—thank you,” Jack lets himself smile, and Parse smiles back and it would be exquisitely easy to lean just that little bit closer and—

And no. Nothing. Jack is not going to let himself go there.

“Can I see more?” Parse asks, brows raising in interest, and Jack nods and shows him, shots taken on roadies and around his home and one of his mother laughing, his father only recognizable by an arm that’s extended toward her at the edge of the photo.

They must’ve gone through about thirty pictures when Parse observes, “There aren’t any of you in here.”

Jack blinks at him. “I don’t—really take selfies,” he says slowly.

“Huh. Not with your buddies or anything?” Parse leans back on his hands.

The true answer is that Jack doesn’t really have many friends—at least, not the kinds of friends who take selfies. He gives Parse the easy answer instead. “I feel weird staring at my own face,” he shrugs.

“Here,” Parse leans forward, and Jack lets him take his phone—it’s not really like he has anything to hide. All of his secrets are safely trapped inside his skull. Parse hits the menu button and then finds the camera button, and he’s flipping it to forward-facing mode before Jack can even ask him what he’s doing. (He actually hadn’t known how to switch modes like that, but that’s not something he plans on revealing.) “Smile,” Parse tells him, and Jack only has time to give a sort of half-grimace before Parse is hitting the button.

“See? I look like an idiot,” Jack grumbles as Parse lets out a laugh.

“Hey, no, no worries. The first one always looks bad,” Parse nudges him with his elbow. “Here, let’s take another.”

This time, Jack has time to prepare himself—or so he thinks, because at the last moment, Parse leans closer and presses the side of his forehead to Jack’s. Jack lets out a surprised laugh, and Parse hits the button at that exact moment so when the camera clicks, Jack is nearly smiling, flushed in a way that even he can admit looks kind of attractive.

And then he looks at the photo of Parse, and Parse—Parse is looking at Jack. He’s smirking and he’s got his eyebrows raised and he’s giving Jack a sidelong glance, making it look like they’re way better friends than they actually are—like Parse actually likes him.

“Perfect,” Parse pronounces it.

Jack squints at him. “You aren’t even looking at the camera.”

“That’s fine,” Parse shrugs, handing Jack his phone. “Send that to me, okay?”

“I don’t—have your number,” Jack swallows.

Parse grins and waggles his eyebrows— _Oh God_. “You want it?”

That has to be a chirp. There’s no way that cannot be a chirp of some kind, because if it isn’t a chirp then that means Parse is _flirting_ with him—but try as he might, Jack can’t think of what Parse might be making fun of him for. So he just nods, trying his best to keep his breathing under control, and Parse steals Jack’s phone again.

“Ah, shit, it locked—help?” Parse asks him, and Jack has to lean closer and type in his passcode, and he can fucking _smell_ Parse, the slightest scent of what might be cologne but is probably his shampoo. “Thanks,” Parse mumbles, and then he finds Jack’s contact list three times faster than Jack would have on his own, typing in _Kent_ in the name space and thumbing in his cell number.

Aiming for easygoing, Jack nudges him. “What, no last name?”

Parse—and he supposes this means Parse wants Jack to call him Kent—Kent chuckles. “Know any other ‘Kent’s?”

“Maybe,” Jack takes his phone back.

“Well, you don’t have to put a last name in for a repeat if they’re the most important one,” Kent smirks.

Jack licks his lips, looking at him, at the mess of his cowlick barely obscured by the hat he’s wearing and the casual way he’s sitting on the bed. “Who says you’re the most important?” Jack says slowly, and the huskiness in his voice is no longer from frustration—he’s not sure if that’s better or if it’s worse.

“I dunno,” Kent shrugs, some of the bravado sliding off of his face. “Am I?”

They’re still very close. Jack very desperately wants to kiss him.

But he can’t make himself lean forward.

“I guess you are,” he says quietly, dropping his gaze—he’s been defeated, he’s not strong enough to do this, even though he so, so wants to and he’s fairly sure Kent really _had_ been flirting—and fuck, how had that even happened? One moment, Jack’s back on home ice, trying his best to be subtle as he watches Kent fly across the ice with the puck—and then Kent passes him the puck and Jack shoots it _in_ , his first goal of the season, and he’s so fucking elated—

And now they’re here, alone in a hotel room, and Jack has no idea how it’d happened.

“I didn’t request you as a roommate,” he blurts out quietly, because he doesn’t want Kent to think too much of him, doesn’t want Kent to chalk random chance up to effort on Jack’s part.

“I know,” Kent blinks at him. “I did.”

Jack’s heart is beating faster, faster, and he’s looking at Kent—and he could swear that Kent’s eyes are bluer than they’d been minutes ago. “Oh,” he breathes, and then he doesn’t know who leans in, only that their lips are smashing together like a controlled explosion, as if this has been coming for a very long time. Kent’s mouth is soft and he’s all squirmy, hands sliding up Jack’s back, and Jack groans and kisses him again, again, oh God.

He doesn’t quite know how they end up horizontal, only that Kent has somehow pushed him over, and now Kent’s straddling him in a way that forces their hips to press together. Jack tries very hard to be quiet, because he’s so fucking nervous and elated and really, really turned on, but then Kent licks his way back into Jack’s mouth and Jack moans unabashedly. He doesn’t even plan to roll his hips up into Kent—he just ends up doing it, and Kent whimpers against his lips. “Here, can I—?” Kent asks, voice raspy, gliding his hand down Jack’s chest, lower, lower. Jack nods helplessly, lets Kent undo the front of his jeans and roll them down his hips, shifting so Kent can pull at his boxers.

And then Kent just stares at him, eyes gliding over Jack’s body, over his erect cock that’s pressing toward his stomach and the bare, exposed skin of his hips. Jack turns his head and stares at the wall, because God, he’s so embarrassed—he’s got muscle now, but he knows he has stretch marks from his growth spurt, from losing weight, and he wouldn’t blame Kent for wanting to stop—

“Hey… look at you,” Kent gives him a soft little smile. “You’re so sexy, God, Zimms.”

Jack laughs, and it comes out sort of throaty in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. “Zimms?” he questions.

“Jack,” Kent sighs.

Jack’s voice cracks. “Wh-y—why’re you doing this?”

Kent’s brow creases at that, little wrinkles creating waves in his brow-line. “I wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles. “Why else?”

Jack can only manage a nod.

And then Kent leans down and—oh God oh God, the last thing Jack had expected was for Kent to be kissing the skin below his belly button, nipping over to his hip, his thigh, and then— _oh fuck_ , Kent’s touching his dick, stroking him, tugging lightly at the foreskin with a gentle firmness.

“Hnngh—“ Jack tries to stifle his moan and it doesn’t quite work, and Kent gives him a cheeky smirk before opening his mouth and— _oh God, fuck,_ Kent’s _licking_ him, lapping little circles around the head of Jack’s cock, and Jack rocks his head back into the mattress because he’s fairly sure watching it is going to kill him. And then Kent takes the tip of it into his mouth and sucks down, down, and Jack _sobs_ —“ _Fuck!_ Fuck, Kentkentkent—“ God, it’s all wet heat and obscene sucking noises, Kent bobbing up and down around him, and when Jack dares to look down it’s only to meet eyes that are now blue, so blue—“I can’t—I’m too close,” Jack tells him in a strangled voice.

Kent pulls off, gasping a little. “Want me to swallow?” he smirks, and Jack nearly comes right then, _God_.

As it is, he can only manage a desperate little, “I-if you want,” and then Kent sucks him down again, faster this time, and Jack’s dying, dying—“ _Ke-ent_!” he chokes out, the wave of pleasure trapping him against the bed, anchoring him to the place where Kent’s lips meet his dick, where Kent keeps sucking him down, where Kent swallows like it’s nothing. Jack can’t help but slip a hand into Kent’s curls, noting dimly that Kent’s hat had disappeared sometime in the last half hour, and when Kent pulls away he fixes Jack with a smirk that Jack can only describe as satisfied. “Kent—“ Jack reaches for him, pulls him up by the arm, and he’s too embarrassed to ask out loud but Kent has no complaints as Jack reaches for the drawstring of his basketball shorts.

“Aww, fuck,” Kent groans when Jack slips his hand into the waistband, tugging it down with his other hand so he can pull Kent’s cock out. He strokes it tentatively, becoming more accustomed to the feel of its warm weight in his hand as Kent starts rutting into him with a shaky sigh.

“I—I dunno if I want to, um,” Jack swallows, face blazing. “To do what you did.”

He pulls his fist up, then back down again, the pre-cum easing his way, and Kent shivers. “Nah, you don’t have to—this is good—oh, yeah, fuck, like that, _oh_. Uhh, I’m gonna have to—move,” he says, his arms shaking as he holds himself up above Jack. “I don’t wanna, um, mess up your shirt.”

Jack blinks up at him, then arches his back and lifts off the bed so he can ruck his shirt up to his armpits. He could take it all the way off, but that would mean taking his hand away from Kent, and he doesn’t want to stop touching him at all because this is—nice. More than nice. Brilliant, if he’s being honest with himself, because seeing Kent’s eyelashes flutter because of _him_ is twisting up his insides in a very good way. “There,” he says, “You can’t mess up my shirt now.”

“Oh _God_ ,” Kent laughs slightly. “You want me—on you? Oh my God, Zimms, that’s so hot—fuck, you feel so good, I’m—fuck, I’m so close, keep _going—_ “ Jack speeds his hand, sliding his thumb over the head of Kent’s cock with every other pass, and then Kent starts falling apart and Jack feels so, so lucky that he’s allowed to watch this. “ _J-Jack_ ,” Kent shudders, “ _Jack_ ,” and he’s squeezing his eyes shut, spilling over Jack’s hand, his stomach, his chest.

Kent sways dangerously when he’s done, looking like he wants to fall over, but he doesn’t. Instead, he manages to sit up, glancing over the mess on Jack’s chest before reaching up and pulling off his own shirt. He uses it to clean Jack off, wiping away the slick evidence of his orgasm, and then when he’s done with Jack’s chest he picks up Jack’s wrist too. Jack can’t stop staring at him, at the way his eyes have gone all soft and the way the corner of his tongue peeks out as he wipes each of Jack’s fingers gently clean.

When Kent gets up to toss his shirt on top of his duffel bag, Jack feels the loss in his bones. He wants Kent to come back, but he also doesn’t want to suffer the embarrassment of asking for it if it turns out that Kent had only wanted him in the _sex_ way. By the time he reaches the end of his train of thought, Jack’s worked himself into such a nervous mess that he can only say, “We should—go to bed.”

“Oh,” Kent says. He looks disappointed, and Jack has to look away as Kent crawls into his own bed.

He straightens his pants and shirt and tucks himself under the covers, rolling so that he’s looking at the wall and not at Kent, breathing quietly on the other side of the room. He closes his eyes.

But he can’t sleep. He tries and tries and all he can think about is how Kent was touching him, and now he’s not. And Jack wants to be touching him, and not sexually—he just wants to wrap himself in Kent’s arms and hide his face in Kent’s chest instead of the pillow.

The silence is slowly killing him. Just when he’s reached the point where he’s suffocating, choking for air, Kent rolls over and says, “You awake?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate to say, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Kent says, and Jack can hear him swallow. “Was that—had you done that before?”

“No,” Jack admits, voice gravelly. He hopes Kent’s not judging him for it.

“Oh, wow,” Kent sighs. “That’s—wow, Zimms. Thanks—for trusting me.”

Jack shivers. “You made me feel good,” he mumbles, voice thick. “I’m—I’m glad you asked to room with me.”

He hears the sound of the sheets on Kent’s side being thrown back, and he rolls over just in time to see along with hearing the ‘thump’ of Kent’s feet hitting the floor. Kent pads over and slips into the bed next to him, winding his limbs around Jack’s body, and Jack tugs him closer and presses his face into Kent’s neck and _breathes_.

His exhaustion falls over him then like a soft blanket. Slowly, he leans up and presses his lips against Kent’s, just a gentle, short kiss.

He pulls away and sees that Kent’s grinning at him, eyes bright as the moon out the window, and Jack realizes that Kent’s lopsided smile means more to him than any of the touching they’ve done tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> hang out w/me on [tumblr](http://omgpbandj.tumblr.com/) <3


End file.
